World Enough, and Time
by StoneWingedAngel
Summary: John's morning starts badly, and it only gets worse, until it shatters his life completely and takes everything he cares for with it. The next morning is the same. And the next. As the past repeats itself John can only look at Sherlock in confusion and wonder what he knows that John does not.
1. Day One

**Warnings: Violence, graphic descriptions of injuries, bad language.**

* * *

John was late.

He was often late on the mornings he ended up staying at 221b – a combination of creeping age and Sherlock's endless enthusiasm for late-night criminal chasing – but he usually took it well. It was rare that a case ran over and prevented him from returning to Mary, but the surgery wasn't far, and if he missed the bus, then he could run it. His running skills were kept in fine shape.

Today, he wasn't taking it well. He was angry. Sherlock had left a god-awful mess in the kitchen, and cleaning it up had eaten into most of his morning. If he'd been braver he would have left it, but it had looked like it was rapidly fermenting, and the smell was far from healthy. Even if Sherlock deserved to get a lungful of poisonous smog, hospital trips were at the bottom of John's priorities today.

Getting to work was currently number one. Toast in one hand, key in the other, and his mouth full of scalding tea, John couldn't give Sherlock an instant reply when an indignant shout came from the kitchen.

"My experiment!"

John swallowed. The boiling tea made his chest hurt as he grabbed his jacket, shoving the toast in his mouth as he put his arms through the sleeves. He took the toast out again.

"It was polluting the flat."

"My experiment!"

"Forget your bloody experiment! It was a health hazard!"

Key in the lock. Wrong key. Try again.

"John!"  
"I'm late, thanks to you. Go do something else today! And remember you've got dinner at mine and Mary's tonight."

Right key. The door closed, Sherlock's voice faded, and John raced down the stairs, stuffing toast into his mouth as he battled with the porch steps and the crowded pavements. He missed the bus by about ten seconds. The run, in combination with his hasty breakfast, gave him indigestion.

* * *

The morning had started badly, and it only got worse. John, although he hadn't exactly expected it to improve, had held out some hope that it might not make him want to tear his hair out in chunks. He was disappointed; two cancer scares, four screaming children and a vomiting teenager later, and his hair was practically begging to be wrenched loose. He was itching with irritation, and his office stank.

His mobile had been ringing for the past five minutes, but he wasn't going to answer it. He was going to have his lunch break, every minute of it, even if he did have to sit in the reception whilst his office aired, and Sherlock wasn't going to stop him.

The sandwich looked reasonable, which was something.

"Office problems?"

Sarah sat and balanced a Tupperware box of salad expertly on her knees. John nodded. "You?"

"Kid wet his pants when I tried to give him an injection."

"Nice."

"I need to eat; I'll clean it in a minute. You?"

"That stomach bug that's been going around. Girl didn't even have time to get to the bin."

Sarah pulled a face, and then smiled. "Glamorous job, isn't it?"

"Oh, fantastic. I had to stay the night at 221b because there wasn't time to get home, so I spent the unearthly hours of the morning cleaning up Sherlock's latest enterprise, and then the more earthly ones scrubbing some student's late-night curry."

Sarah speared a tomato and John flinched as he got peppered with tiny, slimy seeds. "Can't believe you still put up with Sherlock. Not after what he did to you for two years."

John stiffened, then sighed. "I have to. God knows he can be a pain, but I'm used to him."

Another buzz in his pocket. A text. Without looking, John reached down and switched the mobile off. Fuck Sherlock, and fuck his bloody experiment.

"Although, I wish he'd stop ringing me at work."

Sarah laughed. "Shame Mary's on maternity – she could have got him to shut up. How is she, by the-"

There was a sound like a battering ram being forced through glass; a car alarm started before the banging had faded out, rising in waves that caused John's sandwich slide, untouched, to his feet. Sarah had dropped her salad over her lap and had her hands clamped over her ears. Someone screamed.

"What the hell…"

John was on his feet, dragging Sarah after him. "Might be a car accident." He pointed at the nearest receptionist. "Get ready to ring and ambulance, we'll go see…"

Before he could make it halfway to the exit, the door had opened, affording him a glimpse of a road stained with black tyre skids and broken glass. A car had swerved to the left and hit a bollard. A mass of people surged forward and blocked the surgery doorway, walking in a haphazard, drunken formation with something supported on their many hands.

Sarah was forward before John, already shouting. "Don't move them, don't move him, Jesus Christ!"

John snapped to attention. Damage assessment. Warzone. Control.

"Put him down!" he shouted, elbowing someone out of the way to get a hold of the man's feet; Sarah was supporting the neck. Blood was tricking through her fingers. "Get him flat before you do any more damage."

The man twitched. John wondered how much irreversible harm had already been caused.

"Call the ambulance!" Sarah pointed at the receptionist, and then to the crowd. "Get out of here, all of you."

"Not you!" John reached out a bloody hand and grabbed the nearest person from the bunch. "What happened?"

"I-I-he…" The man was young, fair-haired and stuttering. His fingernails were brown with blood and grime.

"Breathe."

The man did. John nodded. "Now tell me."

"He was on his phone, he just ran out without looking. The car tried to move but it sort of…caught him."

"Did he go under or over?"

"Over. I think. I think o-over, it all happened so fast…this said doctor's, we thought…"

"You shouldn't have moved him – you should never move someone in-"

"John."

John ignored Sarah. "He could have a broken neck, he could-"

"John."

John turned, nostrils flaring. Sherlock wasn't wearing his coat, or John would have recognised him straight away; he'd seen him bloody and dirt-smeared enough times to be able to identify him even through layers of the stuff. But this time, recognition had somehow escaped him. Sherlock's hair was plastered to his skull, eyes closed, and he was only in his trousers and no-longer-white shirt.

He still had his phone clasped in his right hand.

"God no."

Not again. John's teeth were vibrating with the need to scream it – not another time, not this time, not today. He knelt, not because he needed to get a better look, but because his knees couldn't support him.

"John, I'll see to him, you don't need to-"

He pushed Sarah to one side, forcing himself to touch Sherlock's head, his face, his eyelids, leaving white fingerprints in the blood. "Jesus." He wasn't sure whether he was talking out loud or not, whether he was whispering or screaming. "What the hell were you playing at Sherlock, what the hell…?"

Sherlock flickered. Not just his eyes – his whole face flickered, skin twitching, shedding broken glass as his neck moved. It was only when he looked like he was trying to speak, when his eyes were open, that John realised that Sherlock's jaw was broken. Not broken. Hanging off. Literally, smashed completely out of his skull at the left side. The car windscreen or mirrors, something must have caught it at the wrong angle and torn it. Sherlock's tongue was visible through the gap. His teeth were a mess. His whole face was grotesque and limp, like a dehydrated leaf.

John had seen worse on the battlefield, but never on the face of someone he knew so well. His hand went for Sherlock's, even as he forced himself not to vomit.

"I'm not losing you, am I?" he murmured. Sarah had staggered to her feet and was slumped against the wall, shaking. She had one of Sherlock's teeth tangled in her cardigan. "I'm not losing you again."

Sherlock still looked like he wanted to say something.

"You can't speak," John explained; people didn't always realise that they'd lost body parts; they convinced themselves they could still feel it. "You've…broken your jaw. Just nod. Or blink, if you can hear."

A blink.

"You'll be fine. They can fix it."

He knew they wouldn't be able to. He knew Sherlock wouldn't be the same; he'd be lucky if he could speak again. He was bleeding too fast for John to think about that. He was dying. Again. Jesus. Jesus Christ. The phone scraped against John's knuckles. Sherlock grunted, making a low, hopeless moan of a sound at the back of his throat.

"You can't speak," John repeated. His lips were heavy with slack disbelief. "You can't-"

Sherlock raised his left hand. The effort required must have been phenomenal; his face, what was left of it, twisted in exhaustion. For a second, John thought Sherlock was going to touch his cheek, and then the hand went past his neck and rested on his shoulder, one finger outstretched.

Sherlock was pointing. John turned to look.

It was just the ceiling, with its customary light, always switched on, always flickering every twenty seconds or so, blinking at him. John squinted. It seemed larger than usual. There was something next to it, something blurred by his teary eyes and gut-churning shock. Something…

He scrubbed his eyes on his shoulder, sending Sherlock's left arm thudding loosely onto his chest, and the thing came into focus. It was black and tiny, with a flashing LED, red, on, off, on, off. The light was tiny. John frowned. Something clicked.

"It's a bomb!" he screamed. "Sarah, get out, it's a bomb."

She was looking at him like he was mad. John heard it before he saw it, even as he turned toward Sherlock and tried to cover him, still gripping his hand so tightly he felt bones, already broken, splinter. He had a bizarre, frame-by-frame moment that spanned two or three racing heartbeats. The fair man raising a hand. Sarah's hair. The yellow sticker on the window declaring the area was neighbourhood watch. Sherlock's left eye rolled into the back of his skull.

Suddenly, everything was very bright.

* * *

**Not the end, surprisingly enough. Bear with me! **

**The title is taken from Andrew Marvell's poem 'To his Coy Mistress'.**

**Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!**

**To be continued.**


	2. Day Two

John was late.

He was also angry, because Sherlock had left the kitchen in such a state that it made him want to gag. Cleaning it up – he wouldn't have bothered if he'd thought he could have made breakfast without giving himself severe poisoning – had made him late. Toast in one hand, key in the other, and his mouth full of scalding tea, he jumped when a shout came from the kitchen.

"John!"

John swallowed, and the hot tea made his chest throb. "If this is about your experiment-"

"No." Sherlock came flying into the room, barefoot, with his pyjama top hanging, undone, over his chest. "No, I just…you're here."

"Of course I'm here!" John snapped. "I shouldn't be, but thanks to you-"

"John, I'm sorry."

John stared. "You're sorry?"

"Please, just listen."

"I'm late…"

"Leave your phone on today. Please."

"Sherlock, if this is some sort of-"

"It's just…something I dreamed. I think I dreamed. Promise me that you'll answer if I ring you."

Sherlock looked half-deranged. John agreed, shoved his breakfast in his mouth, and raced down the stairs, forgetting both to lock the door and pick up his jacket. He missed the bus by over a minute. The run to work, in combination with his toast, gave him indigestion.

* * *

The morning had started badly, and it got worse. Two cancer scares, four screaming children and a vomiting teenager later, and he was irritated enough to want to cry. His bizarre, early-morning conversation with Sherlock had left him feeling on-edge, and on top of all that, he realised he'd left his phone in his jacket pocket. God knew what Sherlock had wanted to ring him about, but he certainly wasn't going to get through.

The sandwich looked reasonable, which was something.

"Office problems?"

Sarah had a box on her lap and her fork in her mouth. The tomatoes on her salad looked like conjunctive eyeballs.

John nodded, too preoccupied to ask her why she was joining him in the waiting room to eat her lunch. A few seconds slipped by without his realising.

"What is it?"

Sarah was looking at him curiously. John blinked, realising he was still holding his sandwich in his hand, like an idiot.

"Nothing. I was out late on a case, and Sherlock was acting up this morning. Not making any sense, as per usual."

Sarah laughed. "God, remember that time-"

John, staring past her, out of the window, got to his feet with a frown. "Speak of the devil…"

Sarah peered round him. "Is that him?"

"I forgot my phone, he said he might want to ring…"

"Want me to guard your sandwich?"

John handed it to her and made his way onto the street. The weather was warmer than he'd expected. Sherlock was making his way toward the road with his phone pressed to his ear, and John raised a hand to wave to him. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked up at the sound of his name, hesitating for a moment and finding John before he stepped off the pavement. John made his way to the side of the road to wait for him.

The car came at such a pace even John didn't see it; Sherlock, not looking where he was going as he began to step off the curb, too busy shouting something that John couldn't make out over the noise of the traffic, didn't stand a chance. It rounded the corner with a screech that fell dully on John's ears, and he reached out a hand, stupidly, uselessly, as Sherlock was caught in the upper thighs and flipped in a ridiculously fast summersault that smashed him into the windscreen and then up, over the top, as the car swerved and slammed into a bollard with a crash.

John, already with one foot onto the road and his hand still outstretched, was running before Sherlock hit the pavement. "Call an ambulance!" Was that him shouting? It was. His hand found someone in the crowd; a fair-haired man with his hand pressed over his mouth in shock. "You, call an ambulance."

Someone had run out and was waving the traffic to a halt. Sherlock was curled on the road with one or two people looking at him curiously, like he was an interesting lizard in a reptile house. One of the crowd reached down and grabbed his shoulder.

"No!" John shouted, skidding to a halt, more falling than lowering himself next to Sherlock's head. "Don't move him!"

"But there's a doctor's-"

"I'm a doctor, I'm-" _I'm his friend_. "Just, get these people back." The upper-left side of Sherlock's head was bleeding; his split-second hesitation in stepping off the pavement had meant he'd caught the right headlight, which had flipped him a half-turn to land on his left. John could see it playing out in his mind's eye, over and over. No doubt he'd forget it in an hour or two, when the shock had worn off. Memory gaps.

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock reached a hand up to his head and touched it. Something inside him seemed to deflate; his phone dropped with a clatter as his hand relaxed.

"Sherlock?" John shook his shoulder as hard as he dared. "Stay with me! I'm not losing you again, come on, stay with me…"

A murmur. John had no chance of hearing it over the screaming car alarm, no chance at all.

"What?"

"I dreamed this…"

He frowned. "Sorry?"

"Not this…something else…"

"Sherlock, I don't understand."

"I…dreamed…"

John clearly wasn't getting any sense out of him at the moment – reasonable, if frustrating. At least he could talk. That was something.

"You'll be fine. They can fix it."

Sherlock looked at him. His eyes were very blue.

"Your…the office…bomb…"

"What?"

"Someone…I tried to ring…"

"I know, I forgot my jacket." John found Sherlock's hand and pressed it in his own, taking the pulse at the same time as trying to rub warmth into the waxy fingers. One or two of them were definitely broken; he could feel bone grinding under his palm. "I forgot my phone, I'm sorry…"

"John…" Sherlock was losing consciousness, John could tell; his eyes were half-rolled and hazy, very unfocused. And he wasn't making any sense. "Bomb…"

"There's no bomb, Sherlock, it was a car, just a car accident."

"John…"

A siren, loud enough to compete with the car alarm, drowned the rest of Sherlock's words. John jerked his head up. Broken glass crunched under his knees as he leaned forward, relief fluttering in his chest, like a broken pillow raining feathers.

"That's them, Sherlock, that's them, you'll be fine, I promise."

Something seemed to shift in the air. John heard a sound like a thunderclap, and he looked up, frowning. The sky was clear. That was strange. Sherlock's fingers twitched in his.

Everything was suddenly very bright.

* * *

**Obviously credit goes to 'Groundhog Day' for this idea, but I didn't mark it as a crossover because it doesn't actually involve any of the characters from it. I always wondered what it would be like for the characters who didn't know what was going on; I guess we'll find out.**

**Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!**

**To be continued.**


	3. Day Three

John was late and angry, and to cap it all off he still hadn't managed to get rid of all the smell in the flat. Bloody Sherlock. Bloody experiments. He squeezed the cloth out one more time and threw it and his gloves in the bin. He scrubbed his hands only three or four times, because he didn't have time for anything else, and left a note on the fridge telling Sherlock to remember he was due for dinner at his and Mary's tonight. Not that John had any desire to see him after the mess he'd just been forced to clean up. For some reason, he decided to skip having tea; his throat felt vaguely sore, as if it had been burned, although he didn't remember eating or drinking anything too-hot within the last twenty-four hours.

"John!"

Sherlock's voice came from somewhere at the back of the flat, near the kitchen. John hesitated, one hand on the door handle. Sherlock sounded angry – no doubt he'd noticed what John had done to his experiment.

John didn't have time to argue with him. It was just an experiment, and a pretty toxic one at that – Sherlock might be angry, but John was more so, and if he waited any longer, he would miss his bus. Sherlock hadn't yet made it into the hallway. John took his chance and slipped out, locking the door quickly behind him. As it clicked shut, he heard Sherlock's voice again.

"John! Make sure you answer your phone!"

John was halfway down the stairs before Sherlock could call out again, wondering what the hell he was talking about. He hopped onto the bus a second before it left.

* * *

Two cancer scares, four screaming children and a vomiting teenager later, and John wanted to cry. His office stank, but as he was about to leave to force a sandwich down his throat in the waiting room, he heard his phone buzz.

_Incoming call: Sherlock_

Usually, he would have let it ring – he was fairly sure that Sherlock only wanted to whine about his experiment – but then he stopped. Sherlock had said something about his phone this morning. He couldn't remember but perhaps…perhaps it was important. If it wasn't he could have a good shout at Sherlock for bothering him at work, and if it was…well.

He pressed answer.

"Sherlock?"

"_Thank god, John, thank god…_"

"What the hell is wrong with you today? You sound like you've been running a marathon."

"_Listen to me, please_."

"Sherlock-"

"_Please. Trust me_."

John fell silent. Sherlock took a panting breath that rattled like static over the line.

"_I thought it was a dream, a crazy dream, but I got the call again today, for the third time. There's a bomb, in the surgery_."

John felt his face lose its colour. "What?"

"_Get out. Set off the fire alarm, something, get everyone out. This has happened twice before, you need to leave. You've got about ten minutes_."

"What do you mean, twice before?"

"_John!_"

"You're sure there's a bomb?"

"_Trust me_."

"Alright. Stay away, Sherlock. If there is a bomb, I don't want you getting mixed up in it too."

He hung up before Sherlock could reply, heart pumping. Jesus. Right. Area assessment. He slammed an elbow into the fire alarm, breaking the glass, and ran out into the waiting room. Sarah, a box of salad balanced on her knees, looked up as he began to wave his arms.

"Get out! We've got a fire, everyone outside. Get as far away from the building as you can, everyone, now!"  
They shuffled out in a haphazard mass, like melting ice-cream gathering in bunches on the pavement. The weather was warmer than he'd expected. Sarah grabbed for his arm.

"Where's the fire?"

He pushed past her, trying to herd everyone further and further back. Shouting. Chaos. Civilians. The fire alarm was making his head pound.

"John!"

John jerked his head up in time to see Sherlock speeding toward him, his white shirt rumpled and his hair flying.

"I told you to stay away! What the hell is happening? Did you call the police?"

Sherlock skidded to a halt on the pavement. John, standing in the road, felt even shorter than usual, chin angled as he tried to see Sherlock's expression.

"I…" Sherlock was panting like a dog. Sweat ran down his collar. "I got…a call…a threat…bomb…"

"In my work? Why? Who? And what do you mean, twice before?"

Sherlock shook his head. John pressed his hands to his eyeballs and forced himself to breathe as lights popped out behind his lids. A dull ache gathered in his pupils.

"The car!"

John dropped his hands and looked up. "What?"

"John, get-"

Sherlock got his hand onto John's collar as the car – black, big windscreen – rounded the corner with a screech that fell dully on John's ears. He had a bizarre, frame-by-frame moment that stretched into one or two heartbeats. A fair man raising a hand to his mouth. The driver's face. Sherlock, desperately trying to pull him out of the way, hand tangled in his shirt and his knuckles white.

The metal tore through John's legs, breaking the bone. His spine juddered against his skin as he was flipped, dragging Sherlock with him, into the air, feet dangling. The roof of the car was like concrete – he actually felt his ribs being crushed as they bounced on it for a second, two seconds. He was too far gone to feel the road a second time. He had a glimpse of the car swerving into a bollard. Someone screamed. The fire alarm continued to wail.

Sherlock was staring at him. Or rather, he looked like he should have been, only his eyes were in the wrong direction and his neck was at an angle John knew was twisted in all the incorrect places. He wasn't bloody; just a single red line from a split lip. Fancy that. A broken neck, and all John could see at a glance was that single, tiny splash in the corner of his mouth. Mary would have thought it strange too, if she'd been here. Was she here? He couldn't remember.

John opened his mouth to say something. Blood filled his throat, bubbled between his teeth, and burst in a wave over the pavement. He tried to move a hand, but nothing was working except his brain and even that was…was…was…

* * *

**Thanks for reading, feedback welcome!**

**To be continued. **


	4. Day Four

John woke up to the sound of the bathroom door slamming, and found out he was late. He could tell that the second he'd looked for his alarm clock and found it missing.

"Sherlock!"

He was shouting before he'd scrabbled out of bed. He didn't have any fresh socks. Mismatching or old? He went with old.

"Sherlock Holmes, get here right now!"

There was a sound in the corridor. John, yanking his t-shirt over his head, went to the door and elbowed it open. His head got stuck in his collar, and he had to wrestle with it before he could start shouting again.

"What did you do with my alarm clock?"

Sherlock was looking pale and pinched, rubbing his neck. John raised an eyebrow.

"Spit it out, I know it was you. How late am I?"

"About ten minutes."

"Bloody hell Sherlock!" Shoes. Where were his shoes? "Why?"

"John, I need to talk to you."  
"Now is not the time." Ah, shoes. Good. Laces were still done up from the night before. No time for breakfast; he was going to be hungry. The flat smelled of eggs, but he didn't have time to question it.

"Please, John, you have to stay at home today."

"Is that why you nicked my clock?" John stopped, one shoe on and one shoe off. "Why do I need to stay?"

"You don't remember." Sherlock sounded resigned; fuzzy. John didn't often hear him so confused, and it made him pause, even if a voice at the back of his head kept nagging him that he did actually have responsibilities outside Sherlock's bizarre bubble.

"Don't remember what?"

"Nothing. I…I'm sick. You can't go to work."  
"You look fine to me." Sherlock didn't look fine; he looked pale and bruised and almost scared, but John didn't have time to go into that. Sherlock wasn't _sick_, and he was stupider than he looked if he thought John was going to fall for that. "We'll talk tonight, at mine and Mary's."

"You won't get there. You never do."

"Is that a threat?" John had to supress a laugh.

"Please."

John found his keys and shoved them in his pocket, then hesitated, one hand on the door handle. "Sherlock…I…I can't stay at home just because you say so, things don't work that way." He was considering it though, glad Sherlock couldn't see his face, couldn't see the emotions playing across it. He trusted Sherlock, mostly. John opened his mouth to relent, but Sherlock spoke before he could.

"Go to work then." Sherlock sounded bitter. "I'll come with you. I have to show you something. At your work."

John rolled his eyes, but let his shoulders relax as he pulled the door open. "Sure. Whatever. I need to get a cab, I'm so late. You can cough up for it."

* * *

Two cancer scares. Four screaming children. One vomiting teenager. Sherlock. And it was only lunchtime, John reflected. The office stank, but he couldn't leave to pick up his sandwich before he'd had a talk with Sherlock who, after pointing the ceiling of the waiting room out to John and being informed there was absolutely nothing there, had been sulking on the benches outside and refusing to leave. He'd tried to stay in the waiting room, but Sarah had kicked him out after ten minutes. Something was wrong with him, that was certain. And John needed to talk to him about it, so he called him in. Just like a patient.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock, leaning against John's office doorframe with his hands in his pockets and his hair falling in his face, didn't look up.

"For god's sake, stop looking like a broody painting and come in."  
Sherlock shuffled inside. John closed the door.

"Are you using again?"

That got Sherlock looking up. His pupils were normal-sized, but his eyes were bloodshot. John wondered if he'd been crying.

"Answer me. Truthfully. I won't be angry, but I need to know. I can help."

"I'm not."

He could have been lying, but John had to trust him. For now. "What the hell was all that this morning then, with the ceiling? And today, sitting outside. You could have gone home."  
"I thought there was a bomb."

"A bomb?" John, even though he knew there was nothing – he'd seen it himself – felt his heart skip a beat. "What gave you that idea?"

"A dream. Not really. Sort of." Sherlock pressed his hands to his head so tightly John got to his feet, worried he was going to pop his eyes out of their sockets. "So many dreams. Nightmares. But they're not. They're real. Every day, three times now. And I can't do anything about it, I-"

John put a hand to Sherlock's wrist. "You're not making any sense."  
"I know."

"Tell me again."  
"This day has happened three times already. You die. And I die. Every time."  
John knew how realistic nightmares could be; how terrifying. "What happens?"

"I get a call, at twenty-three minutes past twelve, and someone tells me there's a bomb in your office. That it's going to go off. It's a threat. They say I've got thirteen minutes. They hang up."  
"Who calls you?"

"A man." Sherlock scratched frantically at his hair, drawing blood. John snatched for his hand, but it was pulled away before he could get a grip. "A man, someone, god I don't know! Or if they don't kill you there's a car, or…or…and I watched for them today but there was no-one, it's like it was a dream, no-one unusual came in …"

"Sherlock, please." John took both Sherlock's hands, stopping him from doing any more damage. "I know dreams can feel real, especially if you get them more than once in a night, but they're not. You have to keep yourself together, I can help you. Look." He offered his watch. "It's already twelve thirty-four. No-one's called you."

Sherlock stared at him, then drew out his phone and looked at it. John could see from where he was standing that there was no missed call.

"You checked the ceiling earlier. There's nothing there, Sherlock."

Sherlock pulled away from John so quickly he almost took his arm off, threw the office door open with a crash and raced into the waiting room. "It's there! It must have been someone, during the day, they must have seen me outside. They wouldn't have called me then, I was already _here_." He came to an abrupt halt. People were staring. "Does this place have a back entrance?"

"Yes, but-"

"Who can use it?"

John blinked. "Anyone, I suppose, if they come through Sarah's office, why?"

"I was only watching the front!" Sherlock clapped a hand to his head. "I should have stayed in the waiting room, I should have insisted, I should have _believed _was true…twelve thirty-four – two minutes, John, two minutes!"

John glanced at his watch. Less than that – the second hand was already inching towards the six.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock grabbed John's head and forced it toward the ceiling, pointing. John looked up, had a glimpse of something black, and felt his brain falter.

"Get out! Everyone out!" Sherlock was screaming. People were staring at him. Sarah was already on her feet, lettuce and cucumber scattered around her shoes.

John didn't understand, but he didn't need to in order to act. "Get out!" His voice joined Sherlock's, clashed with it, swallowed it. "Out now! Now!" He raced for the nearest fire alarm and slammed a hand onto it, but he got the glass at the wrong angle, and all it did was bounce off. In the time it took to change position and force his elbow through it Sherlock was by his side, tugging at his arm. People stampeded past them. In the rush Sherlock was swept backwards; John stayed behind, knowing that if he went now he'd only get trampled. It was agony; his stomach was threatening to burst upward into his heart, and his heart out of his mouth. Sweat stung across his lips. He wasn't going to see Mary again, he wasn't going to kiss her, he wasn't going to see his child, he was going to lose Sherlock, he was going to die…

He knew he couldn't have more than thirty seconds, and even if he did make it through the bottleneck that had formed around the door, he wouldn't be able to get far enough away to stop the bricks collapsing on him. Sherlock was already outside, already fighting to get back to him – John could see him through the window, trying fruitlessly to elbow his way past the crush of people. If he didn't move away, he was going to get caught up in the explosion. John had to get out, get him away. He felt that his life would have been worth it if he could just make it out.

The chairs in the waiting room were all attached to the floor, but the small, sturdy table that held a pile of grease-spotted magazines smashed through the window with no trouble at all. Glass sliced John's fingers practically in two as he made a desperate attempt to half-leap, half-scramble through. How many seconds? Not knowing was worse than knowing. Sherlock had spotted him; he raced to the side and reached for John's hand. Blood slipped between their fingers as John began to pitch forward, away from the building, he was out, he was-

He was still four inches from the ground when everything went bright.

* * *

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**To be continued. **


	5. Day Five

John woke up to see his alarm clock gone and the light coming through the window telling him he was very, very late.

"Sherlock!"

He was shouting before he'd scrabbled out of bed. He didn't have any fresh socks. Mismatching or old? He went with old.

"Sherlock-oh."

Sherlock was standing in the doorway. His hair was un-brushed, and he looked like he'd changed with his eyes closed; John was sure he'd put his shirt on inside out.

"John, listen to me."  
"Busy. Late. Thanks to whatever you've done with my alarm clock." John forced his t-shirt over his head. "What time is it?"

"Twelve."

John balked. "_Twelve_?"

"I made sure I was quiet. I didn't want to wake you early."

"Jesus Christ." John found a shoe and pulled it on. "We'll be having words about this."

"You can't go to work."

"I bloody well can, even if I have to grovel to Sarah. I can blame you. She'll understand that."

"I won't let you." Sherlock stepped forward.

John glowered at him. "Is that a threat?"

"A warning."

"Are you-"

"Using again? No."

John, his other shoe hanging limply from his hand, blinked. "How did you know I was going to say that?"

"You've said it before. You've said it all before."

"I'm fairly sure I've never seen you acting like this before."

Sherlock began to pace, still in front of the doorway, still blocking it. John was made dizzy just watching him.

"I want to stop."

"You want what to stop?" Jon asked, worry biting at his throat and making his words strained and uncomfortable. The room was crackling with energy, and Sherlock was going to have a heart attack if he didn't calm down.

"_I _want to stop."

"You want…"

"To stop. I need to stop, now, I'm going round and round in circles, and it hurts, John, it always _hurts_…"

"You're not making any-"

"Sense! I know, no sense." Sherlock laughed. John took a step back. "For god's sake, John, can't you see what's going on here? Why can't you _see_?"

"See what? You're acting like a five year old, Sherlock, a bloody child!" John ran both his hands through his hair and sighed. "I don't have time for this, I really don't."

Sherlock sat down in front of the door, rested his chin on his knees and stared into the distance. John prodded him with a toe, got no response, rolled his eyes and got on his knees.

"Sherlock."

Nothing. Not even a blink. John took Sherlock's face in his hands and forced him to look up, forced his stiff neck to crease. He was so tense he could have been made of rock.

"Look at me. Come on. What's going on?"

Sherlock shook his head. His mouth was tight and thin.

"Can't you tell me?"

"You wouldn't understand. You never do."

John sighed. "Can I help?"

For a moment, Sherlock looked like he was about to say something, and then he shook his head.

"Are you sure?"

"There's nothing you can do." Sherlock laughed, but it sounded more like he was choking. "It's all hopeless."

"Sherlock, are you sure you're definitely not-"

"I'm not using."

John sighed and pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead. He could feel the blood pounding in his temples. "What do you want me to say, Sherlock? What's wrong?"

Sherlock got to his feet so suddenly that John almost overbalanced. "Go to work."

"What?" John frowned. "I thought you said-"

"Ignore me." Sherlock reached for him and hauled him roughly to his feet. "Get going. I'm coming with you. You'll see."

"See what?"

"I'm going to find out who's doing this. And then I'll try again tomorrow."

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock was already heading for the door, dragging John by the shirt. He didn't bother putting his shoes on, not even when John picked them up and followed with them in hand.

They took a cab to the surgery, sitting together in confused silence. John went through everything that could cause whatever was happening, but the problem was he couldn't define it. Sherlock refused to talk. His phone rang about halfway through the journey, but he didn't pick it up. When John asked him why, he only said something about the day being a dead loss anyway.

"John!" Sarah abandoned her salad on the waiting room bench as soon as she saw them. "Where the hell have you been?"

"Long story," John murmured, glancing at Sherlock, who was standing with his hands in his pockets, looking at the ceiling. He lowered his voice. "Sherlock's acting…strange."  
"More than usual?"

John sighed. "It's serious. I think he's…I don't know. One second he's trying to stop me coming here, the next he's lethargic, he won't speak, and between the two extremes he keeps going on about god knows what. And the flat was clean." He pushed a hand into his pocket and felt a couple of coins, flipping them between his fingers until he could gather his thoughts. "Spotless."

Sarah looked over John's shoulder and frowned. "He is a bit pale."

"You should have seen him earlier. I thought he was going to burst something."

"What's he looking at?"

John turned to glance at Sherlock. "No idea. Is there something on the ceiling?"

Sherlock turned toward them; his eyes were glassy and strange, his shoulders very loose "Has anyone come in and tampered with this part of the ceiling today?"

Sarah shrugged. "We had an electrician in earlier, to fix that light." She squinted. "Has he left something behind?"

John stepped towards Sherlock, craning his neck to get a better look at the black smudge on the ceiling. The light flickered on and off. "He didn't do a very good job of mending it, did he?"

Sherlock reached out and took John's arm. "He wasn't an electrician." He called back to Sarah. "What did he look like?"

Sarah shrugged. "I didn't get a good look – dark hair, tall-ish. Why?"

Sherlock didn't answer her. Sarah rolled her eyes and went back to her salad.

"That it." Sherlock's voice was very quiet. "That must him."

"Who?" John looked round. He didn't recognise anyone.

"The caller. He's the electrician." Sherlock was suddenly in front of John, blocking his view of the light. He looked ridiculous, with the label of his shirt on show and his socks poking out of the bottom of his rumpled trousers. "Don't look at it."

"Don't look at what?"

"It'll hurt less if you don't know."

John took a step back. "Hurt? Sherlock, I don't-"

"I know you don't. But you will. Tomorrow." Sherlock smiled. He looked so sad it made John want to weep. "Just stay standing there."

A shudder passed through John's leg – _keep your eyes fixed on me_ – and he felt the hairs on the back of his neck beginning to stand to attention.

"You're scaring me."

"I'd say sorry, but you wouldn't remember." Sherlock opened his arms, took a step forward, and enveloped John in them. John wriggled. The realisation flashed across his mind that he'd left Sherlock's shoes in the taxi.

"Sherlock, let go."

"Shh. It won't happen tomorrow, I promise. It'll all work out tomorrow."

"Sherlock…"

A sound cracked the ceiling open like an egg. When John tried to look up, Sherlock held him in place. Even with his eyes forcefully pressed into Sherlock's shirt, everything got brighter.

* * *

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**To be continued. **


	6. Day Six

John didn't know where he was, but he knew that he was late for work, because the light hitting his closed eyes was painfully intense and his mouth was chalky; it only ever got like that when he'd dozed longer than usual, sometimes catching up on missed minutes by sleeping for ten hours at a time. Mary had learned to wake him up on days where he had work, but perhaps Sherlock had forgotten…

John scrubbed a hand over his face, winced at the tang of sweat, realised that he was sitting upright, and wished that he wasn't, because it couldn't mean anything good. He blinked.

The road was winding and narrow, well off the beaten track. A few sheep in a field, a horse, a herd of cows. He was a long way from London. His seatbelt rubbed against his neck as he sat up straighter. The windscreen leapt out at him – in the front seat then. Who was driving?

Sherlock had his hands wrapped so tightly around the wheel his knuckles had gone almost purple.

"What's this?" John gave his hands and experimental waggle. Everything seemed to be working.

"Sleeping pills. Shouldn't be any drastic side effects."

John had a fuzzy image of Sherlock waking him up with a cup of tea. He should really learn not to trust Sherlock with hot drinks. He didn't feel as angry as he knew he should be – he was still tired, still confused – but it wouldn't hurt to force a little rage into his voice. Sherlock couldn't be allowed to think he could get away with this sort of thing.

"I thought we talked about this."

"This is different."

"No it's not. You drugged me once before. It was stupid, it was wrong, it almost scared me half to death. And you promised you wouldn't do it again. Stop the car."

Sherlock didn't even bother to reply. When John tried the door, he found it locked. He wondered whose car it was. It smelled of pastry and cigarette smoke. Greg?

"Stop. The. Car."

Sherlock didn't, and John didn't dare try and wrestle control from him; they were too likely to go into a wall.

"Is this an experiment?"

"No."

"What is it then?" Another field. They started to go uphill, and drop down the other side was steep. John felt his empty stomach flip.

"I'll tell you later."

"Sherlock-"

"Later." Sherlock looked at him, briefly. John had half a mind to tell him to keep his eyes on the road. "I promised I would protect you and Mary, I swore to it. Trust me now. Please, trust me."

"It's precisely this sort of thing that makes me stop trusting you," John muttered, folding his arms and resting his head against the window. "I'm warning you, if it isn't good, we might not be seeing each other again."

Silence between them had never been a problem in the past; Sherlock would vanish into his own mind for hours, John would talk to Mary or write his blog, and they'd be perfectly happy in each other's company. But the quiet was different now. Sherlock wasn't _choosing _not to speak, he was refusing. And John was scared for him. Because something had clearly gone wrong in Sherlock's brain; something had snapped.

There was a piece of paper resting on the dashboard. John picked it up, more to occupy his mind than anything else, to distract from his worry and confusion. It was neatly folded. A receipt for petrol, dated today. On the back, Sherlock had scrawled something.

_Me - John_

_Bomb - Bomb - Day 1_

_Car (?) - Bomb (?) - Day 2_

_Car - Car (?) - Day 3_

_Bomb - Bomb - Day 4_

_Bomb -Bomb - Day 5_

Underneath the word 'connection' was scribbled and underlined. The whole thing was in pencil, sketchy and difficult to read. John squinted at it, but it offered him no clues.

"Sherlock, what's this?"  
"Nothing."

"Bombs? Cars?" John frowned. "Is this why we're in a car now?"

"Yes, but not for the reasons you're thinking of."

John chucked the paper back on the dashboard. "I don't have _any _reasons. None of this makes sense and to be quite honest, you're not doing a brilliant job of explaining it."

"If we reach tomorrow, I'll tell you."

"That's not helpful. That's, what, twelve hours?"

"It's already been over a hundred, and here we are." Sherlock's voice dropped as he turned a corner. "Here we still are."

"Where is here?"

"I'm heading for Scotland, just for today."

John's mouth fell open. "I can't go to Scotland! Mary's expecting us back for dinner, I'm supposed to go with her to the maternity clinic tomorrow!"

"If we get to tomorrow, then we don't have to stay there."

"What's with all these 'ifs'? Is someone following us?"

"Hopefully not. I set up a message to send to the police automatically, just before twelve. They should catch him as he goes in to fix the lights."

"Who? What lights?"

"At your office." Sherlock waved a hand. "It's all very simple, but you don't remember. I promised you it wouldn't happen today. Not again."

"What wouldn't happen?"

"Dying."

"I'm not dying."

"I know. Thanks to me, you're not dying. I'm not taking any chances; I wanted to make sure that if they don't catch him in time, you're not anywhere nearby."

"Who's 'him'? Nearby what?"

"Your office."

John frowned, and then something clicked; the little receipt with the writing on it. "A bomb. In my office."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know how this is supposed to play out; if I've got to save you, or stop the bomb, or both. It's not even twelve, there's still time. I'm not sure how it _works_. Magic is irrational." Sherlock looked at him. John felt his skin twitch. "There's science we don't know; perhaps…perhaps this is it."

"Sherlock, if there's a bomb in my office, you have to let everyone know. You can't just spirit me away like this – there are people in there, Sarah, and the patients…"

"They should get out in time, if the message goes through."

"That's not very reassuring."

"I swore to protect you and Mary, and that's what I'm doing." Sherlock's voice was bitter, biting in a way John didn't think he'd heard before. "I've done my best, but…if it has to work like this, then it does. If it's the wrong way, then I can try again tomorrow."

Unable to make sense of what Sherlock was babbling about, John fell silent, waiting for Sherlock to turn back and look at to road. Sherlock's phone was sitting in the space underneath the gearstick and John, being careful not to look too often, began to inch his hand toward it, little by little. The roads were growing increasingly worse; Sherlock was staring intently ahead. He hadn't forgotten John, but he'd put him aside, briefly, to deal with more important matters. And his phone was just sitting there, just within reach…

John spirited it to his lap at a particularly nasty bend. He knew the passcode, thank god – he didn't exactly want to resort to a 999 call. Slide to unlock. Fine. He clutched the phone in his left hand, the one furthest from Sherlock, and dangled it down the side of the seat. Sherlock couldn't see. John wasn't an expert at typing by touch, especially on someone else's phone, but he could give it a try.

There was a beep as the phone unlocked. Sherlock jumped and, almost pitching them through a gate, turned to look at the empty space under the gearstick. John didn't waste time trying to type a message; he found the first contact he thought could help and rang whilst Sherlock was still leaning over to snatch the phone away. John undid his seatbelt scrambled onto the backseat, almost pulling a muscle as he forced his way through the gap between the chairs. Sherlock got a hold of his ankle, but had to let go to take the wheel.

John didn't have much time. Any second now Sherlock would find somewhere to stop the car.

"Come on," John muttered. "Come on, come on…"

"_Sherlock?_"

"Greg? Thank god, Greg, it's John. Sherlock's got some crazy idea in his head – he's convinced there's a bomb at my work and he's dragging me to Scotland. That's why he needed your-"

The car came to a halt with a jerk so sudden John only narrowly avoided breaking his nose on the back of the seats. He reached for the handle, but the doors were still locked; he yanked, but to no avail.

"_John, slow down, what do you_-"

"Give me the phone John or I'll take it, I swear I'll-"

"_Is that him? He said he needed the car for a private case_-"

"Give it to me John!"

"_Are you alright? Where are you_?"

John darted to the left to avoid Sherlock's reaching arm, catching a glimpse of the satnav as he went. "We're in…near the Peak District, near-"

Sherlock reached over and switched the satnav off, then swivelled in his seat. John ducked into the foot well to avoid him. They were like rats in a cage, fighting over a piece of cheese.

"John, I swear to god if you don't give me that phone-"

"You'll do what?" John looked for an escape route and failed to find one. "You'll hurt me?"

"_John? John? Are you alright, what the hell is going on?_"

"I think we're near Swindon," John said. He moved toward the passenger side of the car, forcing Sherlock to clamber over the gearstick to try reach him. He was lucky Sherlock was so tall; he couldn't stand straight enough to actually get between the seats. "I'll text you if I get anything clearer."

"_We can alert the authorities there._"

"I need you Greg; he'll listen to you."

"_It'll take me two hours to get there_._ As for the bomb thing, I can get a squad onto it, but that mean's it'll be longer before I can get there._"

"I can manage. He just needs someone to talk reason into him."

"I am talking reason!" Sherlock's face contorted; John hadn't often seen it like that. It startled him. "You just don't remember, you don't-"

John turned the phone off and tucked it down his left sleeve. In one movement he powered back to the driver's side; before Sherlock could see what he was doing, what he'd been planning, his right hand had found the unlock button by the steering wheel. There was a click. John scrabbled out, threw himself over a stile, and began to run.

* * *

He was lucky. The fields were exposed but easy to run on, and they quickly gave way to forest that was scraggy and not as thick as he would have liked, but large enough to get lost in. He was in good shape, no matter what Sherlock said maternal bliss had done to his figure, and he made it to the trees before Sherlock had managed to get out of the car. He was careful. Sherlock was a genius, but John was a soldier. He knew how to move without leaving traces, without making a sound. And Sherlock wasn't exactly thinking straight. John simply didn't stop moving. He ran in circles. He wished he had better shoes on. He realised he was wearing odd socks.

After an hour, the phone vibrated. John answered in a whisper.

"Greg?"

"_Are you safe_?"

"For now." John's throat was sore with dehydration. "I'm hiding."

"_I'm breaking the speed limit, John, but it's going to take time. Sherlock was right – there was a bomb_."

John blinked; if he was being honest with himself, he hadn't believed it until Greg had said. "God, really?"

"_It went off, John_."

With his stomach lurching, John came to a halt. "What?"

"_The police got a message just before twelve; it got lost in the system. By the time I got them to dig it out, it was too late. I'm sorry_."

John didn't have the strength left in him to swear, or cry, or be angry. He used the map settings on Sherlock's phone to find the road they'd been on, and told Greg to look out for his car and a stile.

He didn't bother going on. He found himself a thicket which didn't seem too full of nettles and sat down, breathing heavily. He desperately needed a piss, but going would involve turning his back on the forest, being vulnerable, so he held it in. He considered ringing Mary, but decided he couldn't risk the extra noise. Besides, Greg would already have told her he hadn't been in his office, that he was safe. John didn't feel safe. Sherlock had been right about the bomb; that didn't mean that he hadn't terrified John half out of his wits.

There was a coughing sound in the distance and John froze, but it faded out before he could get excited about a car stalling. Greg wasn't due for hours yet. No point getting his hopes up.

Without Sherlock, John might have been dead. Sarah was dead. The receptionists were dead. His patients were dead. He ran through their names, over and over again until he felt the muscles in his legs begin to cramp and knew he had to get up, or he wouldn't be able to move on.

He was in the process of hauling himself to his feet, wincing as his bladder shifted, when he heard a crashing in the undergrowth, and Sherlock's voice, raised and panicked.

"John!"

John didn't run; he had nowhere to go, and his legs didn't yet have all the feeling back in them. He could handle Sherlock, no matter how unstable he was, just like he always had.

Sherlock burst out of the trees in front of him, still shouting. "John! Thank god John, I…"

"That's far enough!" John replied, treading on a thistle as he took a step back. It was only now he realised he wanted to cry, and his voice was straining with the effort not to. "Sherlock, we can sit and talk about this like adults, but I'm not going to-"

Sherlock ignored him, not stopping until he'd clamped two hands around John's arms, holding tight, but not squeezing. Sweat dribbled down his temples. "There's another one," he wheezed. "Another man, he followed us…should have seen, should have thought he would have…"

"Sherlock, slow down."

"I brought this, just in case." Sherlock delved into his coat pocket. John heard a safety click off, and the next second Sherlock had forced his gun into his hands and stepped back, pacing the area they were in.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, this is getting out of hand."

Sherlock laughed, but he stopped pacing. "We left the hand a long time ago." He glanced to their left. "I don't think he got a good enough look to follow me."

John balanced the gun in his palm, getting it into a comfortable position. "You'd better explain this later."

"I will," Sherlock murmured. "I will, I promise." He took a step forward, glanced at his watch, and smiled. "Exactly one o'clock."

John checked his own watch. Sherlock's was a minute fast. "What's so important about the time?"

Sherlock was standing in front of him again, and he was smiling. It was the first normal thing John had seen on his face all day, but the dirt hanging off his sweaty cheeks made the effect unsettling. "I haven't seen one o'clock in almost a-"

There was a coughing noise. Sherlock didn't stagger so much as buck; he looked like every inch of his chest had decided to heave itself a foot forwards without telling the rest of him. Blood was warm against John's face, like an onion kept on a windowsill. Sherlock's forehead hit his shoulder with a bony thud. John raised the gun and fired two shots into the trees. There was a scuffling. Something slithered off a branch. And Sherlock, unsupported, dropped, first to his knees, and then, more slowly, sideways and down. The thistle stuck into John's ankle as he thudded down next to him.

"God no…"

Sherlock coughed. The shot hadn't hit his back, as John had thought; it had gone through the top of his shoulder and come out his lung. And John had nothing; nothing to patch up the holes, no bag to tape over and stop the lung collapsing. He pulled off his jacket and stretched it as tightly as he could across the wound, but it wouldn't work, and he wasn't sure it would make a difference even if he had had the materials, because so much blood had come out of Sherlock out during the first second it had been enough to coat John's entire shirtfront.

"I did it." Sherlock was wheezing. Blood spattered John's cheek as he leaned over.

"You haven't done anything, you've been shot." The phone. John reached for it, one elbow pressed as tightly as he could over the bunched jacket. It wasn't going to make a difference, and he knew it; Sherlock was too far gone to register the pain John was creating by putting pressure over the hole. He was still losing blood. If the bullet hadn't hit something – a rib, perhaps – and deflected, John would have had it embedded in his own abdomen.

"You're alive. I did it." Sherlock snorted. Blood trickled from his nostrils. "It'll be tomorrow."

"You're not making-"

"Sense. And don't tell me they can fix it."

Blood was welling through the jacket and soaking into John's hands. His fingernails looked like they'd been badly painted. Sherlock coughed again, and John reached out to wipe away the red bubbles that had spewed from his nose. By the time he looked up, Sherlock's eyes had frozen in place.

* * *

"I've called Mary," Greg murmured. "She's expecting us back. She…she said she's sorry."

"Mm."

"Speak to me. Please, John."

"He knew what I was going to say."

Greg had bloody hands too, but John's were more thickly caked, almost brown. The steering wheel was smeared. The road was bumpy. Sherlock's body was still in the forest, surrounded by strangers.

"He knew I was going to say they could fix it."

Greg sighed. "He knew you, John. He could guess."

"There was something. Something's wrong."

A look. Of course. Sherlock had died. A bomb had gone off. Greg thought those were the only thing that had happened. And John knew he would realise it, in the morning. He'd feel it then. For now, it was only a bad joke.

* * *

**Two chapters this weekend! I know that chapter length is varying quite a lot in this fic, which I usually try to avoid, but it just depends on how far Sherlock and John get in the day.**

**Thanks so much for all your feedback so far! I'm really glad people seem to be enjoying this despite the fact it's pretty dark. **

**To be continued.**


	7. Day Seven

John woke to silence.

He sat up. He wasn't late, which surprised him, although he didn't know why it surprised him; he wasn't usually late, after all. More often than not, he was on time.

Socks. Mismatching or old? He went with old. How long did he have for breakfast? More than the enough time, providing the kitchen was in working order. Yawning, he made his way downstairs. The kitchen was more than in order; it was actually clean. Spotless. Sherlock was sitting in it, with an array of pens and scraps of paper in front of him, and a coffee so strong that even looking at it set John's teeth on edge.

"Morning."

Sherlock murmured something. John put bread in the toaster. The clock in the mantelpiece ticked.

"You cleaned the kitchen."

The pen clattered down as Sherlock looked up. "How did you know it was dirty?"

John stared at him. "I saw it last night. You haven't scrubbed that hob in months."

"Oh. Of course."

John narrowed his eyes. "Why? What were you doing in here?"

"Nothing. Just a small experiment. All tidied up now."

"You're acting very strangely."

"Mm."

The toast popped up. John found jam and a knife and began spreading. Sherlock continued to scribble.

"What are you writing?"

"Notes."

John sighed. "Right."

"Are you going to work?"

Some of the jam splashed the surfaces. John, unable to find a single scrap of kitchen roll, or a clean cloth, used a tissue to scrub it away.

"I always go to work on a Wednesday."

"Pity."

"I don't care how bored you are, I'm not missing a day. I need to keep them in reserve for when the baby's born."

Sherlock waved a hand. His pen was back between his fingers. "Don't forget your phone."

"Why?"

"I might need to ring you, just before lunch."

"I'll probably be with a patient then. I don't get my break until half twelve."

"Oh. Well, I suppose that works out better. You won't be in the waiting room when they come."

John felt his brow wrinkle. He was used to Sherlock being a genius, but not a fortune-teller. That wasn't his style; he liked to have all the evidence before he made a deduction. "When who come?"

"The electricians. Two of them. One of them has short hair and a steady hand. Not sure what the other one's like."

"Much as I'm glad someone's going to fix that bloody light, I wish you wouldn't hack into databases, or private emails, or whatever you've got your hands on this time."

"I haven't hacked into anything."

John rolled his eyes, stuffed the last of his toast into his mouth, and swallowed. "Of course."

"What would you say to me if I was dying?"

John stiffened. His left hand twitched. _I'm his friend_. "You already know that."

"If you thought I could still hear you, you'd tell me you could fix it, or that someone else could fix it."

"I don't want to have this conversation." John reached for his jacket, threw it on, and stuffed his hands deep into his pockets to hide the fact they were trembling. "I don't need to remember it first thing in the morning."

"It's what you'd say, though. Remember that."

"I don't _want _to," John hissed. "Respect it and shut up."

Sherlock closed his mouth. John was so surprised that he found there was nothing else for him to do but leave the flat. He caught an earlier bus than usual.

* * *

"Did the electricians come?"

Sarah frowned at him, tomato halfway to her mouth. "How'd you know that? They only finished half an hour ago."

John felt his heart dip. He wasn't sure why it dipped – just because the practice had found out a short time ago didn't meant that Sherlock hadn't been able to get his hands on the information some other way. Perhaps it was the strangeness of the day. Clean kitchen. Sherlock. _You'd tell me you could fix it_. Morbid, that was the word. Sherlock was never intentionally morbid – topics that seemed depressing to other people tended to be bordering on exciting for him.

"John?"

"I meant…they haven't come in weeks. I was wondering if they'd been on my day off."

"Oh." Sarah popped her tomato in her mouth. "They seem to be finally getting their arses in gear. Got it all done in less than ten minutes."

John looked at the ceiling. The light flickered. "They haven't done a very good job."

"Mm." Sarah frowned. "What's that black doo-dah next to it?"

John squinted, chewing thoughtfully on his sandwich. He wondered if he needed to start wearing glasses; it was difficult to see at his angle. The black thing on the ceiling was almost the same colour as the dark grey paint, and before he could get a good look, Sarah spoke again.

"Sherlock!"

John looked round, forgetting about the ceiling. Sherlock had a large file under one arm, his coat buttoned around his neck and what looked like a toolbox clasped in his right hand.

"What are you doing here?" John was apprehensive; Sherlock looked set for experiments, and John had told him, numerous times, no experiments at his work. Or in the park. Or on Mary.

Sherlock ignored him, moved the magazine table, stood on it, and reached for the light. John blinked.

"Are you fixing our electricity now?"

Sarah gave a nervous laugh. She looked even more apprehensive than John felt. "Those things are expensive, you know, they really don't need tamper-oh dear."

John winced as Sherlock ripped the black thing away from the ceiling, stepped down from the table and, flipping the folder open with his foot, bent to unlock his toolbox.

"Sherlock, for god's sake, the electricians left that there for a reason…"

"Mary and I have been telling you about getting glasses."

"What?"

Sherlock held out a palm, balancing the black object on it. "Take a closer look."

John leaned forwards, frowned, and then felt his stomach do two flips in rapid succession; if he'd had time to eat more than two bites of his sandwich, he might have brought it up.

"Jesus! Sherlock, put that down, it's a-"

"Bomb, I know." Sherlock turned a page in the folder, then, quite serenely, took something that looked like wire cutters out of his box. Sarah was drip-white and trembling, looking between the bomb, Sherlock and John as if expecting them to jump up and shout 'April Fools'.

"I should call the police," she stammered eventually. "We should get everyone out, if there's a bomb…how long have we got?"

"About four minutes," Sherlock murmured. A black car passed on the road outside; the reflection caught John's eye as he stood, getting himself into soldier mode, thinking. "Not enough time for the police. I tried setting something up yesterday, but they didn't get there in time. My time window's very small – too small for intervention. They were clever; a short fuse, less time for people to stop it. Mycroft's tied up with other matters. He's stopped answering his phone after the last…conversation around the Christmas table. But all I need is time."

"We don't have time, Sherlock!"

Sherlock looked almost as if he might laugh. "You have no idea how much time we have."

"Three minutes is not enough!" John took a breath through his nose, held it for six precious seconds, and let it go. "Sherlock I want you to put that down. We'll get everyone out." Already, he was looking around for the fire alarm. He couldn't pretend he'd understood everything Sherlock had just spouted at him, but he understood the orders he'd received a long time ago, in the Afghan heat. Get the civilians out. And Sherlock, whether he liked it or not, was a civilian. "Sarah, get as far away as you can, ring the police anyway." His elbow was a centimetre away from the glass of the fire alarm when Sherlock spoke.

"Don't bother. The range is more than you'll be able to move."

Sarah continued to tremble; John thought that she might faint. His elbow hovered.

"We can try."

"No need." Sherlock checked the file, turned a page, turned back, and raised his wire cutters. "No point leaving anything to the experts. You always told me I should learn bomb disposal, after our time in the subway, John; I should have listened. I should have realised this was my job; I don't have to save you. I have to save everyone. I have to do it myself."

"Sherlock, don't do anything, you'll kill us-"

Sherlock brought the wire cutters together. John threw up a hand to cover his eyes. Sarah staggered back a pace.

Nothing happened. Sherlock smiled. John let out a breath, felt his knees go weak, and had to sit down, gripping the side of the seat, knocking his half-eaten sandwich to the floor.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock, Jesus…"

Sherlock put the bomb down, nonchalantly, like it was a bag of crisps. He was still smiling. It was only now John could see how exhausted he looked.

"I fixed it. Look." He pointed to his watch. "Twelve thirty-eight."

Sarah laughed. She sounded like a dying parrot. "I bloody…holy…I think I need to lie down."

John tipped forward on his seat. He was sweating. His heart was going twice as fast as it should have been.

"I think I might join you there…"

Sarah sat against the wall and put her head on her knees. Sherlock was packing away tools; the clinking noises seemed oddly dull. John looked up. His vision flickered. Was he fainting? Why would he be fainting? He'd seen bombs before, it was over, it was…

The air stopped going into his lungs.

For a moment, he thought the wind had got through his lips and stolen his breath, and then he remembered that he was inside, and there was no wind. His mouth opened and closed, as if it was testing this new phenomenon out. His heart felt like it was echoing, the staggering beats growing fainter.

He only realised he'd slid off the chair when he saw Sherlock upside-down, in the midst of dropping his folder.

"John?"

It didn't sound like his name. Strange. The whole day had been strange. But Sherlock had fixed it. Tonight, he'd be at John and Mary's. He could explain then.

"John, what-"

John blinked. His knees felt numb. Sherlock's hair touched his face. The ceiling, already grey, dulled. He blinked again, and then wished he hadn't, because his eyes wouldn't open again. Why was that? What was-

* * *

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**To be continued. **


	8. Day Eight

John was late. He'd woken up reasonably on time, and then Sherlock had insisted on asking him a hundred different questions about his health. Any family history of heart disease? Palpitations? Food allergies? Underlying conditions?

By the time he pulled himself away and raced the down the stairs, his bus was already leaving.

* * *

Two cancer scares. Four screaming children. One vomiting teenager. And a sandwich that looked only just reasonable, which he had to eat in the waiting room because his office stank.

Sarah smiled at him as she sat down. "Office problems?"

John nodded. "You?"

"Kid wet his pants when I tried to give him an injection."

"Nice."

"I needed to eat; I'll clean it in a minute. You?"

"That stomach bug that's been going around. Girl didn't even have time to get to the bin."

Sarah pulled a face. "Glamorous job, isn't it?"

"Oh, fantastic. I spent the unearthly hours of the morning answering Sherlock's endless questions about my family history, and then the more earthly ones scrubbing someone else's curry."

Sarah crunched lettuce and frowned. "I didn't think Sherlock was the sort of person interested in family history. Any of your ancestors go on killing sprees?"

John snorted. "Not that I know of. He seemed very keen on diagnosing me with a heart condition."

"Have you got one?"

"No history of it, apart from some distant cousin on my mum's side. They gave me a full medical coming in and out of the army; nothing wrong with it."

"Strange."

"Very."

They ate in silence for a moment – the sandwich was more mediocre than it looked – and then the door opened. Sherlock swept in and, before John could even say his name, had stood on a chair, scooped something off the ceiling and, facing away from him and Sarah, taken something black out of his coat. By the time John got to his feet he was turning back round again, stowing things in his pockets. John folded his arms.

"Sherlock, put it back."

"Mycroft," Sherlock said. "Installing cameras everywhere now. I just de-activated it."

John raised an eyebrow. "Really?"

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. Sarah put her salad down and got to her feet.

"Camera?"

John shook his head. "Don't ask."

"Now." Sherlock swooped on John, took him by the arms and held him as he looked at his eyes, then pressed a finger to his pulse. "How do you feel?"

"How do I feel?"

"Yes, John."

"Like you're not telling me something I really should know."

Sherlock tutted. "You never believe me when I do tell you, there's no point yet." He checked his watch. "We all have to make it to tomorrow. I think that's how it works."

John cleared his throat. His cheeks were slowly turning red. "I don't suppose there's any chance you could…get off me?"

Sherlock stepped back a pace. "I've gone through your medical records – no history of heart disease, no indication of any after your last medical test…"

"Sherlock!"

"Shut up." Sherlock was walking in circles, eyebrows furrowed. "It must be stimulated by something – some outside cause. How are you feeling?"

"Fine, Sherlock, you just asked-"

Sherlock checked his watch. "I am a little early, I suppose. You've got at least six minutes."

"Til what?"

"Have you ingested anything unusual? What have you eaten today?"

John thought. "Toast. Tea. A sandwich."

"Sandwich. Give."

John found it on the seat and handed it over, if only to make Sherlock shut up. Sherlock held it up to his face and sniffed in, then started turning it round and round.

"What is he doing?" Sarah muttered. "Has he gone completely mad?"

John scrubbed a hand over his face; his heart was going at twice the rate, and it was making him sweat. A black car passed on the street outside. The light flickered. "Probably." Was Sherlock using again? Jesus Christ, he could do without that. His mouth felt strange and rubbery. The light blinked again. His vision blurred.

For a moment, John thought the wind had got through his lips and stolen his breath. He only realised he'd slid off the chair when he saw Sarah upside-down, in the midst of dropping her salad, being pushed out of the way by Sherlock. He still had the sandwich in his hand.

"No, no you're early!"

John opened his mouth. No sound came out. He was choking, and it hurt.

"You've eaten more of this than you did yesterday." Sherlock was brandishing the sandwich. "Tell me where you got it." Sherlock shook him. "Tell me!"

"Stop it!" Sarah grabbed Sherlock's shoulder. He threw her off. "You're scaring him, I'll call an ambulance, I'll-"

"Where did you get it?"

John didn't know why Sherlock wanted that information, of all things, when he was dying, but John had got used, over the years, to giving Sherlock what he wanted. The wrapper was still on his desk; if he couldn't speak the words, Sherlock could find out for himself.

'Desk.' He mouthed the word. Sherlock frowned. John did it again.

Sherlock smiled. John felt a giddy, bizarre sense of relief as his face faded out of view.

* * *

**We're nearing the end now - two more chapters to go. Thanks so much for all your support so far!**

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**To be continued. **


	9. Day Nine

John woke, and the flat was silent.

He sat up. He wasn't late, which surprised him, although he didn't know why it surprised him; he wasn't usually late, after all. More often than not, he was on time.

Socks. Mismatching or old? He went with old. How long did he have for breakfast? More than the enough time, providing the kitchen was in working order.

The kitchen was more than in order; it was actually spotless. Sherlock must have cleaned it, and then buggered off. Strange.

John made tea and toast, and was reaching into the fridge for milk when he saw a plate, with a note taped to it.

_John_

_Will be out until later. Made you a sandwich for work. Ham, butter, bread, cheese, pickle. No surprises. Promise._

_-SH_

John frowned. 'No surprises' sounded awfully suspicious. He debated whilst he drank his tea, wondering if he should dump the sandwich in the bin at work and buy one from the shop around the corner. The matter was decided when he checked his wallet and found that Sherlock had stolen most of his small change.

* * *

Two cancer scares. Four screaming children. One vomiting teenager. Even the sandwich was awful, but John appreciated the thought behind it.

"Sherlock was in earlier." Sarah sat down and balanced a Tupperware tub on her knees. "The receptionist told me; you must have missed him by about a minute."

John frowned, winced as he swallowed another bite, and resolved to not eat any more. Sherlock hadn't stinted with the pickle, and pickle always made John feel like his stomach had shrunk. "What did he want?"

"That's the thing – nothing. He took something off the ceiling and wandered off without a by-your-leave."

John rolled his eyes. "Trust him. I'll ask him about it later; he's coming to mine and Mary's tonight"

Sarah nodded. A black car passed on the street outside. The light flickered.

"Speaking of the ceiling, those bloody electricians haven't shown their faces yet."

John rolled his eyes. "Let's face it, the light's never getting fixed."

Sarah laughed. John checked his watch. Only twelve-forty – he had another ten minutes before he had to go back.

"Perhaps Sherlock could fix it for us."

John smiled. "Perhaps."

* * *

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**Final chapter should be up Saturday. **


	10. Thursday

It was raining when John woke.

It hadn't been raining yesterday. He didn't know why he thought that was important – nothing special had happened yesterday, except that Sherlock hadn't shown up for dinner; he and Mary had waited for two hours before making a start without him and going straight to bed.

He had a choice between socks that were red, green or Mary's, and he didn't like any of them. The washing needed doing. He was very sore, still tired. Strange. Perhaps he'd slept in a funny position.

The rain continued to patter as he made his way, yawning, down the stairs.

"Morning," John said as he spotted Mary bending over the toaster with a plastic fork, trying to dig out her toast. He got out two cups and found teabags.

"Sleep well?"

John grunted. "Not sure yet." He yawned again, and stretched. "I feel like I've been awake for days."

There was the sound of cursing as Mary burned her fingers. "You're getting old."

"Shut up."

"You need to get glasses, too."

John tapped her lightly on the arm, laughing as he slid her tea in front of her. "I said shut up!"

Mary stuck out her tongue, went through to the lounge and switched on the television. The sound of the news filled the house as John took over the toaster. It was temperamental, and had to be watched constantly if they didn't want their toast to be the consistency of bread-crumbed ash.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Come here a sec."

"Can't!" John ducked down to the level of the toaster, squinting. "My toast'll burn."

"Seriously, John, where do you get your sandwiches?"

John frowned, abandoned his toast and went through to the lounge, thinking he must have misheard. "What?"

Mary pointed at the television. "There's been a massive scandal at a shop near here – some contaminated rubber gloves meant the employees were accidently lacing the sandwiches with a kind of toxin."

"Jesus," John murmured, sitting down on the sofa. "Was anyone hurt?"

"No – someone found out before they went out on sale; the place was closed down."

John swallowed, squinted at the TV, and almost jumped in shock when a picture of a very familiar shop leapt onto the screen. "I do get my sandwiches from there!"

"_What_?"

"I always buy them there." John's head was spinning. "But yesterday Sherlock made me one, so I took that instead."

"Bloody hell," Mary murmured. "That was either very lucky, or-"

"Or he knew," John growled. "I wish he'd _tell _me these things instead of just leaving random notes. I could have ignored him and got one anyway!"

"Shh!" Mary hissed, flapping a hand as more words flashed onto the screen. "They think it was an accident; no suspects as of yet."

"If Sherlock's involved you can bet there is, and they just won't tell the public," John muttered. He'd also take a fairly sure bet that it was why Sherlock hadn't shown up to dinner. Despite his complaints about 'small talk' and 'boredom' he almost never failed to come when John invited him round. Only a good case would have stopped him.

The doorbell rang. Mary poked him. "You get it."

"Lazy."

"Pregnant."

John heaved himself to his feet. "Now I see your agenda; having a baby just so you can hog the sofa."

Mary snorted. John went through to the hall and unlocked the door.

Sherlock looked exhausted – his eyes were bruised and puffy, and his clothing was horribly askew. But he also looked…happy was the only word to describe it. He was practically beaming.

John sighed as he stepped aside to allow Sherlock in. "That good of a case was it, was it? The sandwich thing?"

Sherlock leaned against the wall, pulling off his shoes – John was surprised he'd bothered to remember – and shook his head. "That wasn't the case."

"But it was on the news – and you made me a sandwich," John said, frowning. "And you didn't show up to dinner."

Sherlock hung his coat on the nearest available peg, knocking down Mary's hat as he did so. John was in the process of bending to get it when, to his surprise, Sherlock stooped, picked it up himself, and put it back. John gaped.

"You're acting very strangely today."

"You have no idea how many times you've already said that," Sherlock said and, before John could ask him what he meant, had swept him into a tight hug.

John grunted. "Sherlock, what the hell are you playing at?"

"Nothing."

John rolled his eyes and hesitantly tapped Sherlock on the shoulder a couple of times. "Alright, enough. You'd better tell me about whatever you were doing yesterday, if it's got you acting like this."

Sherlock let go. His cheeks were flushed, but he looked pale underneath it. "Do you remember the Bryant case?"

John frowned. "The one with the knife and the four locked rooms?"

"Yes."

"Tried to stab me when I found him?"

"Yes." Sherlock's face flickered a little. "You have to testify against him."

"I _know _that," John muttered, resisting the urge to roll his eyes a second time. "What does this have to do with yesterday?"

"Did Sarah tell you I'd been in?"

"She said something about it. I assumed you were fiddling with the lights. Or that Mycroft was up to his tricks."

"It was a bomb, John."

John felt something jolt in his stomach as he had a single, bizarre moment of de-ja-vu, until he shook himself and set it aside. "You defused a bomb?"

"Eventually."

"Have you any idea how stupid that was – you should have called Greg, or…or _me_, you should have at least told me!"

"There was never time," Sherlock replied. He'd been biting his lip; John could see the tooth-mark furrows in the skin. "I sorted it. Bryant had hired two men to pose as electricians and plant a bomb. If you couldn't testify, the case would fall apart."

"But the trial's not for weeks," John murmured, leading Sherlock through to the kitchen and running him a glass of water – he looked ready to fall down.

"Exactly." Sherlock accepted the water without protest – another surprising development – and took a sip. "The further away it was from his trial, the less suspicious it seemed." He waved a hand. "It doesn't matter now. I stopped the bomb, and Greg had time to find the men before they escaped. No-one was hurt, and Bryant won't try again, or he'll just look more guilty. Everything's the way it's supposed to be."

"Jesus," John murmured, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he considered just how close Bryant had come to getting his way. His toast popped up, the colour of coal. He threw it in the bin.

"What's Jesus?" Mary called through. "Is that Sherlock? Tell him he ruined dinner and he'd better have a good excuse!"

John huffed, brought Sherlock into the lounge and deposited him in an armchair. Mary had her tea balanced on her round stomach, but she almost upset it when she saw Sherlock. "When was the last time you slept?"

Sherlock looked guilty. If anything, he seemed even more tired than he had the moment he'd stepped in the door, now the smile had drained from his face. "Not for a while."

"Just drink your water," John said. "You look dehydrated."

John filled Mary in on what Sherlock had told him. Sherlock started off chipping in every other sentence, but gradually fell silent.

"So it was nothing to do with the sandwiches?" Mary said, after he'd finished. "That was just a coincidence?"

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock, who'd been staring at nothing, jerked his head toward them. "What?"

"The sandwiches – they were just a coincidence?"

"Oh. Yes – I didn't have anything to do with that."

The rain pattered. The silence was companionable, musing.

"Wait a minute," Mary said. "If you didn't have anything to do with it, Sherlock, how come you made John a sandwich yesterday morning?"

John turned to Sherlock, about to say something, and stopped. Sherlock had his head resting on one hand and his glass of water slipping from the other. His eyes were closed, and he was breathing evenly.

Mary snorted. "He really is like a five-year old."

"Of course he is," John whispered, getting to his feet and carefully easing the glass out of Sherlock's hands before he dropped it over himself. "He's probably been running on caffeine for a week, knowing him."

Mary was giggling, one hand pressed over her mouth. John tapped her on the shoulder. "Don't, you'll wake him."

Sherlock turned over on the chair, tucking his legs up into his chest and murmuring something intelligible. Mary balled her sleeve over her face and went very red as she tried to stifle the noise. John's mouth was twitching. "Come on," he muttered, reaching for Mary's arms and hauling her out of the sofa. "Leave him be."

As soon as they were out of the lounge and in the kitchen, they both burst into helpless laughter.

"Oh, we really mustn't," Mary said breathlessly. "He has just saved your life."

Even the thought of what might have happened couldn't stop John from laughing; if anything, it only made it worse. Because this was what they did; they escaped death, and then they laughed. It wasn't a crime scene, but it was good enough.

They were still laughing when the rain stopped.

* * *

**That's it then! I really enjoyed writing this one, so thanks very much for all your feedback and support. So many of you had wonderful ideas as to how this could continue, but I felt that I couldn't make a fic like this longer without it becoming repetitive.**

**The end!**


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